


Broken

by suilven



Category: Dragon Age
Genre: Angst, F/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-28
Updated: 2012-02-28
Packaged: 2017-10-31 21:02:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,446
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/348343
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/suilven/pseuds/suilven
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In a pattern they can't seem to change, Anders has escaped and Rylock follows.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Broken

**Broken**

* * *

_Bend me, break me_ _  
__Any way you need me_ _  
__All I want is you_ _  
__Bend me, break me_ _  
__Breaking down is easy_ _  
__All I want is you_

_~ I Think I'm Paranoid, Garbage_

* * *

He'd killed them.

She'd never thought he'd actually  _do_  it—for all his threats and posturing—but it was hard to ignore the bodies of her colleagues lying bent and broken in the tall grass that surrounded the small cottage. Rylock didn't bother to stoop down and press her fingers against their necks, searching desperately for a weak, living thud against her fingertips. No one could have survived… not the way they were contorted with limbs twisted into impossible angles. Even their armor was battered and scorched, having weathered a storm that the flesh within could not.

The vial in her hand was hot and tingled against her palm. He was close.

A kind of nauseous exhilaration swept through her; it was hard not to revel in the chase, especially when it led her to him. Each time he ran, she pursued—a subordinate at first but, after the second time, they'd let her lead. She'd had what they thought was an uncanny ability to locate him, and she did, in a sense. She thought like him. Despite it all—a mage and a templar—Rylock knew his mind as well as she knew his body; words and fists spilling over into an angry and desperate passion.

Maker knew she'd tried to stay away. But, in the days and weeks that followed one of their encounters, the pressure would inevitably build once more. She would catch him watching her, his eyes burning with the same hopeless fire that flared up in the pit of her belly. It was a weakness, this desire, but her recognition of that fact did nothing to dampen the pull that brought them together to clash against the impossibility of what they were.

A mage.

And a templar.

Rylock dropped her helm in the dirt outside the door where it landed with a heavy thump. He was here. She could almost smell him; the subtle note of lyrium still heavy in the air. The muscles in her arm trembled as she slid the vial away beneath her breast plate. The heat radiating from it prickled her skin, seeping through the thin material of her shirt. There was no hesitation as she pushed the door open.

The cottage was thick with dust, and had clearly been abandoned some time ago. A few broken chairs leaned at odd angles near the hearth; the only other piece of furniture of note was the large bed—evidently too large to be hauled away by the hut's previous occupants. Her heart was pounding frantically with the elation of the hunt. Her target sat on the edge of the bed, his hands folded calmly in his lap.

It wasn't until she approached that Anders lifted his head, regarding her with a cool stare. "They sent you. Why am I not surprised?"

"Did you really think they would send someone else?"

He watched her for a moment. "No."

Rylock took in his dishevelled appearance. He'd lost weight in the weeks since his escape, which wasn't all that surprising. She should drain him—prevent him from drawing on his magic—but somehow she knew it wasn't necessary, despite what the bodies just outside would suggest. She hadn't even drawn her sword. "You killed them."

"I did."

"Why?"

Anders laughed, not a pleasant sound. "Why? Because they would have done it to me."

"Our orders are to bring you back alive. You know that. Do you have any idea what they're going to do to you?" She tried to keep the quiver out of her voice.

He shrugged, his shoulders too tight to pull off the feigned sense of casualness. "It doesn't matter this time." His eyes met hers. "I'm not going back."

The flecks of dust in the air hung motionless in the beam of sunlight that cut across the floor between them. "Are you fucking crazy?" A pang of something she couldn't identify—fear?—sunk its claws deep into her flesh.

He laughed again. "Probably."

"You know I can't let you do that. I can't just let you walk away." Rylock slowly withdrew her sword from its scabbard and let it drop down until the tip of the blade rested on the floor. She clutched the hilt in her hands, the weight steadying her as she held it in place.

"I know."

"Then why didn't you just kill me, too, when I came in?"

The bed frame creaked loudly as Anders stood up. "Because I knew it was you."

"What makes you think that makes a difference?" She had to force herself to breathe as he stepped closer.

"Are we still pretending that what happens between us doesn't exist? I'm having trouble keeping it all straight."

"There's nothing between us."

"No?" He was standing uncomfortably close; his breath hot against her cheek as she stood rigid, refusing to turn her head to look at him. Beneath her armor, her skin was now unbearably warm and the place where his phylactery lay against her heart felt like it had been scorched raw. "Then why do we always seem to end up like this?"

"I don't know. It was a mistake."

He walked a slow circle around her and it was an effort to not swivel to watch his movement. "A mistake?" Anders stopped in front of her, his hands gently prying the sword from her hands until it clattered to the floor. "Is that really what you believe?"

"It doesn't matter what I believe, or what I want, or what you want." She glared at him. "You're coming back with me."

He shook his head. "I don't belong to you,  _templar_. My life is my own."

"Now who's pretending? Enjoy your pathetic existence when they lock you up again, if you're lucky. You killed two templars!" Her voice was getting louder. "What the fuck were you thinking?"

"What was I thinking?" Anders snarled into her face. "I was thinking about wanting to have another day out here, free. I was thinking about the last year that they left me locked in that room. No one is  _ever_  doing that to me again. Do you have any fucking idea what that was like? Do you?" He was shaking with anger. "Of course you don't."

She exploded. "Don't you dare act like you know what I've been through! You don't want to get locked up? Then don't fucking run away! Do you think I  _like_  chasing you? Do you think I  _like_  watching them beat you?" She blinked, willing the tears that were pricking her eyes to recede. "What fucking choice have you left me?"

Anders suddenly seized her jaw between his hands and kissed her, the savageness of it making her gasp. His lips were bruising and hard against hers, and the sharp spike of need that sliced through her mingled with the shame of how much she wanted this… how much she wanted him. She pressed her tongue against his, forcing him to give way until she was plundering  _his_  mouth and he was pulling back against the gauntleted hands that now held his head in place. He bit down on her lip until it bled; the tang of blood and lyrium on her tongue as she released him. Both of them were breathing heavily, their foreheads pressed together.

"I can't do this anymore," she whispered.

His fingertips teased the tendrils of hair around her temple that had slipped free. "You won't have to. I'm not going back."

"You know I can't let you do that."

"Why? Because Greagoir will sit in his office and cry? Fuck them, Rylock. What have they ever done for you?"

"It's not that." She pulled back enough to remove her gauntlets and tossed them carelessly to the ground. Threading her fingers through his hair, she loosened the strip of leather that held his hair back so that it fell loose over his shoulders. "I've seen what magic can do. You haven't seen the abominations that come back from failed Harrowings." She shuddered. "Magic  _is_  dangerous."

"So are swords."

"It's not the same thing."

"Isn't it? Oh, sorry, I forgot… the Chant says that  _swords_  are okay."

Rylock pushed him back hard enough that he stumbled. "Fuck, Anders! It doesn't matter!" She stalked after him, pressing him backward until the back of his legs touched the bed. "You're coming back with me, even if I have to—"

She stopped, the unspoken threat palpable in the air.

He sneered. "Even if you have to what—smite me? Kill me?" He spread his arms wide. "Go ahead and try."

She could feel his magic, tense and roiling just below the surface, and she couldn't help her instinctive reaction. She reached for the Veil, visualizing the threads like she'd been taught, drawing them into herself and tying them off. The steady pull of the Veil behind her contrasted with the push of barely restrained power radiating from Anders, leaving her a volatile conduit between the opposing forces.

"What are you waiting for? Do it."

Rylock was surprised at how steady her voice sounded. "No."

"Then let me go."

"No." She shoved him back against the bed, her fingers digging into his throat. "Why are you making me do this?" He gasped for air against her hand, but didn't try to cast. She knew he wouldn't. There was no panic in his eyes, only acceptance.

She released him, ignoring the strangled heaving sounds as air flooded back into his lungs, and buried her face in her hands. His breathing grew less ragged as silence settled in around them, broken only by the impossibly idyllic twittering of birds somewhere outside. The bed creaked as he sat up, his hands reaching for the buckles that held her breast plate in place. Rylock raised her arms to help him as the pieces of her armor were carefully removed, one by one, until she, too, was clad in little more than a linen shirt and trousers. As he watched, she slid her fingers into her shirt pocket and drew out his phylactery; holding it up to the sunlight—ruby-colored shadows danced across the floor—before placing it carefully next to her armor.

Anders ran a fingertip down the line of her throat, his fingers closing around her neck this time, though they didn't squeeze. "Are you afraid of me? If magic is so dangerous." She shook her head and his fingers tightened ever so slightly. "Why not?"

"I trust you."

"You shouldn't." He let go, his hand dropping into his lap.

Rylock grabbed his head roughly, pulling him into a hungry kiss. "I don't care," she murmured between frantic snatches at his mouth. She rolled over onto the bed, pulling him with her. The press of his body was blissfully heavy as he crushed her against the mattress. "I want one more. Just one more time."

In answer, he made his way down her neck, biting and soothing with sweeps of his tongue until he reached the collar of her shirt. She could feel his hardness against her thigh and she rocked up against it as Anders moaned. There was no tenderness, no whispered words of love or comfort, as they tore at each other's clothes, desperate for the feel of skin on skin. His mouth was at her exposed breasts—suckling, nipping—while her fingernails gouged lines down his back.

"Maker, Anders, fuck me—" Rylock arched up against him wantonly, unable to hold back a whimper of need as he shifted and thrust inside her.

He growled against her throat before claiming her mouth once more, his hips setting a hard pace. She wrapped her legs around him, drawing him in deeper as her thoughts dissolved into nothing more than: harder, faster, more.  _Maker, Anders… more…_

She was over the edge, unable to hold back, coming with a hoarse cry that he swallowed with another ravenous kiss. Then, he was clutching at her—

"Fuck, Rylock, I need—"

His body ground roughly against hers until he groaned, stilling except for the last stuttering motions of his hips.

At last, he rolled off her, pulling her into a tight embrace as the racing gallop of her pulse slowly returned to normal. She wished she had the courage to speak, the words tantalizingly close to spilling out, but instead she nuzzled against his neck and breathed him in.

_I wish we could stay like this._

_I wish I knew what making love to you felt like._

_I wish we weren't so fucking broken._

Anders kissed her forehead softly. "I'm sorry."

"For what?" she almost managed to get out, but the swell of magic that rippled through her was so warm and comfortable that it was impossible to think. She was sinking down—drowning in it—but she didn't  _want_  to fight it. A heavy languidness pooled in her limbs, pulling her down… endlessly down…

oOoOo

It was the chill that woke her.

Moonlight streamed in through the open window, bathing the bed in a pale caress of light.

"Fuck!"

Anders was gone, just the scent of him lingering on the blankets. He was gone—of course he was gone. How could she have been so fucking stupid? She dressed in a rage, her hands shaking with fury as she re-fastened each piece of her armor. He'd used her, just like everyone else. She'd  _known_  he was using her, so why did this feel like such a fucking betrayal? His phylactery was gone, too; no surprise there.

Rylock stormed from the house, stopping just outside the door to collect her helm.

Her helm.

It had been turned over, open side up.

She tentatively reached inside, pulling out a vial filled with crimson liquid that was faintly warm to the touch.

Rylock sat down awkwardly, leaning against the door frame. She tried to pretend that there was no elation, no jump of her heart at the thought that he  _wanted_  her to follow. But… she had to bring him back. The contorted bodies of her colleagues still jutted from the grass.

Why couldn't he have just taken his phylactery with him?

Why did he have to leave her torn—forever pulled between  _them_  and  _him_?

_Fucking Anders._

She sat resting against the door, twisting his cooling phylactery in her fingers until the muted whisper of dawn broke across the sky.

* * *

_Bend me, break me_ _  
__Any way you need me_ _  
__As long as I want you baby, it's all right_

_~ I Think I'm Paranoid, Garbage_

_  
_


End file.
